It's Just A Dream
by RoxieRose
Summary: Do you know when sometimes you wake up from a nightmare or a really good dream that sends your heart racing…when you sit up in bed with a hand on your chest and you whisper "It was just a dream".  Thats how I feel like nothing is real anymore, who am I?


I would like to thank pixiedust196 for inspiring me to write this story please go check out her fic called He remembered, it's a great story :D

This is my first ever peter pan fic so please be nice the story is all over the place and im not sure where its going but please if you have something you would like to see happen let me know and I will try and get it in….I kinda hope that this will be a dark fic but we will see x

_**It's just a dream**_

Do you know when sometimes you wake up from a nightmare or a really good dream that sends your heart racing…when you sit up in bed with a hand on your chest and you whisper "It was just a dream".

Or the cheesy old stories and movies where the main character awakes and all there adventures was nothing but a figment of there imagination….That's how I feel, I keep waiting to wake up in my own bed and say "its just a dream"

My name is Felicia, not many people know that name, not many people notice me at all, why should they, I'm what people call weird…strange an odd ball.

I have no memory of my life before I was ten, or a least people guessed I was ten, I was found by a milkman doing his rounds, half frozen in the snow, I don't know why I was there or how I got there, I just was.

I heard the milkman say it looked as if I had just fallen from the sky, and with my broken leg and array of other injuries I earned the nickname Angel from my rescuers which was to become my middle name.

I was in hospital for weeks while police searched for my family, but alas none were found and eventually I was put in foster care, but I never stayed in the same home long.

Some families found it too strange that I could go weeks without talking or days just staring at a wall with no food or drink passing my lips, or if they had other children that I frightened them with stories I never remembered telling…If I asked what I had said they never told me, figuring I was only lying to try and get out of trouble.

After a year of moving from foster home to foster home, I finally settled in a home…But no it wasn't because I found happiness with a family or that a couple saw past my many problems and loved me for who I was.

The couple who took me in were hardcore Christians who had convinced themselves that I was possessed by the devil or some other evil demon and were determined to "Cure me".

I didn't really care, I had a roof over my head, warm food every day and a bed to sleep in at night, in my own way I was happy.

But when I first started middle school I came to realize how different I was from other children, Parents like to think that children are dumb, that they don't figure things out the same way they do, When I started school my foster parents had to tell the teachers about my past, then of course they told there friends, then they told there friends, and so on….and along the way one of my classmates heard the story, so it wasn't long before the whole school knew and kids started shouting stuff like…

"Your mother hated you so much, she dropped you of the roof to kill you" or "No wonder your family left, with a face like yours"….it was just kid stuff really but it hurt all the same.

The teachers were no better; they ignored the bulling and ignored me, left me to sit at the back of the classroom to do my work then sit jotting random nonsense in my note book, or just stare of into the sky.

Then the bomb dropped, one Friday afternoon the school called in my foster parents, I sat beside my foster mother my long brown hair hiding my face as the head teacher explains that my English teacher had come to her in tears and clearly distressed over a homework assignment we were given last week.

The assignment was to write a short story about anything we wanted, I tried my best to remember what I wrote about, I really did but I couldn't even remember handing it into the teacher.

The head mistress handed my foster parents the work book with my assignment inside and I watched there faces change from pain to dismay then disgust.

I desperately wanted to see what I had done to upset everyone but after they had thanked the head mistress, mother dragged me to the car by my arm and we all drove home in silence, once home my note book was locked away in fathers study, I was sent to bed without supper.

I laid awake listening to them both talk about me, or should I say about what to do about me, I sensed the dreaded word coming up before it did but even though I'm expecting it I still closed my eyes and sighed….Therapy.

But I couldn't think about that right now, I had a job to do.

I waited until it was late at night and was sure my foster parents were asleep before sneaking downstairs and into fathers study, luckily he kept his desk key in his jacket that he always hung up on the back of his desk chair.

Once I had fished it out I fumbled with the lock until the draw slid open, hardly breathing I pulled out my assignment book and lowered myself into the desk chair before opening it.

The first gasp to escape my lips was not of horror or disgust but of wonder, for what I was looking at was the most beautiful piece of art work I had ever seen but the second gasp was followed by a sob.

Upon the first two pages of my note book was a drawing done in coloured pencils but shading was used to add to its slender.

The picture was of an island as if viewed from out at sea, mountains with glistening waterfalls running of the tops and lushes palm trees dominated the island but certain things stood out more.

Such as the very large oak tree that stood on a cliffs edge, its giant roots wove in and out of the cliff face all the way down to the waves.

Something like a tree house hanged upon its branches, ladders and rope bridges dangled from branch to branch, where children could be seen playing.

To the right of the cliff a large ship is sailing by, its flags black and adorned with skull and bones here I can see pirates climbing the mass or leaning over the edges a lone dark figure stands at the wheel only his back showing but the simple way he is shaded sends chills down my spine.

One of his arms is raised to point into the sky, where the shape of a boy is shade drawn at the centre of the sun, his hands are on his hips, his head cocked back as if howling into the clear blue sky.

All this in its own way is strange but nothing to really get worked up about, it's what else adorns the page that has me frightened and everyone else I guess.

Not only is the pirate at the wheel pointing not with a hand but a gleaming silver hook dripping with blood, but many bodies float in the sea around the boat and are done in such great detail I recognize every single one of them, my foster parents, teachers some classmates, even the milkman that found me as a child is there too, but its not there faces I'm fixed on, it my own, closer and in greater detail than the others, my blank dead eyes stare out of the page at me, blood snaking down my face.

Tearing my eyes away from my mangled face they return to the boy flying in the sun and realize now that he's howling in pain, above the sun the title of the art work is scrawled in my handwriting banishing any doubt in my mind that I drew this….Neverland


End file.
